Tom's Riddle
by Miss Pennyfeather
Summary: AU. Tom Riddle is slowly becoming a danger for the wizardly world. His doom will come from very unexpected quarters. Tom Riddle/OC. Please read if you like. rated T for some swearing, violence and maturer themes
1. Chapter 1

1: Clouded Minds

****************

'Gentlemen, the odds are against us, whatever way we choose to see the situation. We are outnumbered, we are outdone, but most of all, we are outwitted. Five years ago, we claimed that it could not be possible for one young fellow that dabbled in the Dark Arts, with little to no supporters, to be considered a threat to us. Today I look at you and I look at the world around us and I am starting to believe fear is everywhere. Why is that?'

Some of the counsellors sitting across the table exchanged small glances. The man on his right drank from his glass of water loudly.

'You're wasting your time John,' the man on his right told him. 'Fear was here from the start, we just ignored it until now.'

John smiled and took out a piece of paper.

'The Prime Minister writes to us informing us that "at this rate, the safety of the _muggle_ world will be at stake". He has politely threatened us that if we do not solve this situation ourselves, they will use their own reinforcement, regardless of the Law of Secrecy,' he quoted putting the paper down.

'I don't know about you fellows, but I'd like to keep things as they are,' he continued. 'No goddamn gun or machine will kill the bastard. Only we can do it. And if he is an expert in the Dark Arts, we shall become experts in the Dark Arts as well. Whatever this wanker is doing, we need to do better; we need to be one step in front of him.'

A man wearing a blue tie with yellow brooms adorning it sank his cigar in the water glass. He was meaning to talk.

'My boys were killed like sheep last week, Flannigan. And they've all been heavily prepared. Only one was sent back alive, half-mutilated, to tell us how he, the _Dark Lord_ would show no mercy on the opposition. Some of our best Aurors are dying at this moment for an unnamed cause and you want us to be one step in front of him?'

'I think I speak for all when I say that what happened last week was not only a tragedy, but also a great loss for us and we feel it as much as you do. We're not pointing the finger at you or anyone else, we're not expecting more. _I_ am expecting something completely different from all of you here,' John replied softly.

'I don't know what that _different_ could be, but if it could help us hold back Riddle's attacks…' the man on his right started.

'Riddle can withstand every attack because of his followers, so being one step in front of him would mean taking down all his soldiers, one by one,' another man added slightly piqued. 'The Blacks and the Malfoys are all putrid criminals, serving Riddle in broad daylight, but does anyone take charge of them or bothers to arrest them? No! Because they are filthy, rich and influent sons of a bitch.'

'Taking Malfoy and Black down would mean taking half the purebloods down. Do we really want _that_ on our hands right now? What we need is to attack from the inside,' a younger one chimed in.

The door half-opened and a young, blonde girl stepped in quietly, trudging a trolley after her. She handed John some files and whispered something in his ear.

'Thank you Martha. Gentlemen, it seems that I've been called on emergency. We shall continue this afternoon,' he said getting up and bowing politely.

He went out of the room together with Martha.

'You don't look very well, Sir,' she commented glancing at his ashen face. 'Would you like me to make you some tea?'

'I'd rather have a screwdriver, if you don't mind Martha.'

'After office hours, Sir,' she said smiling sadly. 'No good news?'

'No news at all. My six year old daughter is more useful than that council. They think they're hired only for the informal chitchat. Nobody does anything in this place; it's a dead end, I tell you. I've told every young fellow I know: You come out of school as a young man, the Ministry will turn you into a self-proclaimed prissy boy.'

'Really, Sir! My brother wants to be an attorney in the Legal Department, what should I tell him?' Martha asked taking out her glasses and wiping them.

'That he's a fool, no offence Martha. Tell him to become a street singer. Whole lot more honourable.'

The hallway was barely lit, so the young woman took out her wand and flicked the floating light bulbs. When the new surge of light burst through, he could see her half-wiped lipstick and washed eyes smiling at him.

'He probably won't even get a spot, anyway. They're cutting down on personnel. Soon, there'll be just Betty and me in the office. I dread that, Sir. It can get awfully quiet in there and when Bill from the next room yells at us that there's been another attack we feel the ground shaking.'

'Don't you worry Martha. We're not through yet. We're just at the beginning.'

'That's what's worse, Sir,' she mumbled and fumbled with her tie.

'I hope you treated Mr. Dumbledore nicely, Martha. He's a mighty fellow, you know.'

'Of course I did. I knew he was coming to see you so I took care of him well and I served him tea and milk. He was very polite. I had never met him in the flesh, but he does look like the man who defeated Grindelwald.'

'He is a great man, Martha. If there's one wizard who can help us against Riddle it's Dumbledore.'

'Riddle is nothing like Grindelwald, is he, Sir?'

'Everyone around me seems to think he is worse,' he answered looking at the long corridor, full of open doors.

Martha pursed her lips and pushed the trolley harder, trying to compare the two.

* * *

_three weeks later_

He had returned from Albany sooner than expected and his quarters weren't ready. The seals were placed over the high walls, but the entrance wasn't as guarded.

He had noticed it. He had decided to go walk through the graveyard again. He did it daily, a very healthy sort of ritual.

Tom had split his soul again, had crumbled it in pieces and left the pieces in God's way, though he didn't know God existed.

His ancestral beauty foreshadowed a clean-cut disfiguration, but for the moment, he looked very young, strolling through the graves. He didn't look older than his father when he had met his mother. Tom Riddle was the result of a Love Potion. In fact he owned everything he was to a potion that produced artificial feelings. Maybe that is why he was taking revenge on the world.

Inside the manor, Avery was having drinks with Pucey.

Pucey looked sickly pale. He had eaten too much. He belched loudly and scratched his head.

'How are we feeding those mongrels? How are we keeping them alive?'

'We're not. They are only game,' Avery replied, referring to the muggleborn prisoners trapped in the lower dungeons.

'When do we feast on the game, eh?'

'When he comes back. If he ever comes back,' Avery said looking lazily at a pocket watch. 'I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't return at all.'

'How's that?!' Pucey exclaimed putting his feet on the stool in front of the fire.

'Think about it. He's in a tricky mess, that he is and he's got a good chance of getting away now. Then he'd be leaving us fools take the blame for him,' he said grudgingly.

'You're an idiot Avery,' Pucey replied. 'You're a stupid idiot who talks like an idiot.'

Avery punched him in the ribs with his boot.

'You're a bigger idiot. You got the family name by sleeping with your cousin, you dung,' Avery responded.

'_I got a woman_…' Pucey started singing, biting his nails.

The door banged loudly and Riddle trod into the room, flinging his robe in the small hands of a house elf.

'Pucey and Avery both fell on the floor and tried hard to get themselves up very fast and cower at the same time.

'Get out,' he ordered them.

'Had a good trip, my Lord?' Pucey asked grinning.

'An interesting one, I can say,' he answered and tapped his wand at them. Both Avery and Pucey were thrown out of the room, down the stairs by what had seemed an awful draught.

He opened the door to his study and found someone else sitting in a corner, waiting patiently.

'Hornblow,' he muttered. 'You came.'

'As beckoned, I did. It wasn't easy, Sir. I shall probably not be able to come next month. Wouldn't want them to keep an eye on me,' he said wiping the sweat from his forehead. He was a stodgy man with an unshaved beard and brown leather gloves. He was the brother of one of the council members at the Ministry. It was enough for Tom, at least from that quarter.

They talked for more than an hour, Riddle questioning him and Hornblow answering steadily, his knees shaking almost visibly. His yellow moustache was full of wine stains.

Tom listened to him absently, staring at one point in space vacantly, only nodding from time to time. He way leaning in his armchair, hands strapped over his chest, looking at the black stoned ring. From time to time, he would look out the open window and catch sight of a bird. He would try to shoot it using his wand and sometimes he'd strike.

'I would like to see the borders breaking under my bend,' he suddenly spoke after a long span of silence.

'Pardon?' Hornblow inquired.

'I never agreed to this lowering, distasteful divide between people. Men are all men, built in the same fashion, weakened by the same instruments and in front of death they all act the same, muggles or wizards,' he contemplated. 'I shall enjoy the chaos that shall break out after one turns against the other. It shall serve as a distraction beneficial for me.'

Before Hornblow left, Riddle wiped his memory of the afternoon and let him go.

He had been saddened to hear that two of his best men had been killed in combat in Surrey. It had happened in a very peculiar manner since the alleged criminals were not Aurors. One of them was a Weasley, of that he was sure. The other remained a small mystery. Some of his sources weren't sure about his identity.

Rosier Senior had been dispatched to find out and kill him, but Tom had later found out that the young man in question had fled the country in a desperate attempt to escape punishment from his servants. It was more difficult for one of his followers to Apparate across the continent. Rosier was heavily punished, but Riddle knew it was not worth the bother.

Two months after this event, he received reports from Karkaroff Senior that the young man was currently in Denmark, pursuing some legal studies. He had gathered more students in a small riot against Nordstrom, one of the Dark Lord's followers. He was also allegedly leaking out dangerous information he had acquired from his two previous victims in England.

Tom was naturally furious to hear that he had still escaped his grasp. His power was not yet dominant throughout the countries.

But Rosier proved to be useful in the end. He managed to intercept secret letters written by the young offender. They were addressed to a girl called Martha. It was subtly hinted that she worked at the Ministry in London. They seemed very close, almost like brother and sister. Tom was happy that the man had been so neglectful. It was all the information he needed.


	2. Chapter 2

2: Disarming Kindness

Martha barely held her large, blue tears while she typed some useless documents at her desk.

The last letter from her brother had been devastating.

It warned her he wouldn't be able to write anymore, or at least not in a long time. He was very impersonal. He warned her of the danger around her. He finally told her of the danger he had got into abroad, but he didn't mention anything conclusive about it. He just kept telling her to be careful. And as always, he told her the light would shine again someday. That is how he always ended his letters.

Martha knew nothing of the two Death Eaters her brothers had killed before fleeing the country. She had just understood he wanted to go study abroad for a while because he had received an excellent offer and he wasn't about to pass it up just because the country was under crisis. Not that he would go there to continue his suicidal plans. He had always been straightforward about this war. But she had never suspected he would go to these abnormal lengths.

In England, he had been unruly and dangerous but to an extent that could be controlled, if not foreseen.

She thought Denmark would be a good idea for him. He would change scenery and maybe give up his passionate chase after justice.

She had been foolish and naïve. All those letters before had told her lies. He was actually involved in murders and riots. And how would she be able to trust him again?

John lingered by her side trying to comfort her.

'Don't worry too much Martha. He is a very brave boy, a fine fellow. I am very proud of him. We all are. What he is doing for this country and for the wizardly world will go down in history. Aren't you proud Martha? I know you long to see him safe and sound, but he is safer where he is now, trust me on this. He will return victorious one day, I promise you.'

Martha sighed and withdrew herself from his judging eye. When John had left, she turned to Betty, her cheeks already wet.

'He'll never come back! He is going to die God knows where and I'll never see him again!'

'Don't talk like that Martha! He's a national hero, he wouldn't like to see you cry about it!'

'Oh, damn national hero! He was a stupid fool to go up against someone like Riddle and I'll be damned if I forgive him for it! How can I care for the good of this country when he's out there, already dying?'

Betty patted her back gently and gave her a glass of water.

'This letter, it's saying the same thing! That he's doing what he must, that it's his duty. What kind of duty is this? To abandon your only family, your sister?'

'Young men, you know how they are. They get very passionate about one thing or another and they lose their heads. They're all idealists; they're all punishers of injustice. They'd risk a lot for a cause they believe in.'

Martha did not care for these encouraging words at all. To her, it was complete suicide. Living under the siege was far braver than rebelling against it, in her opinion.

If he died how would he change things, she wondered many times. Nothing would change. Death would be in vain. Better watch your back then and wait for the right moment. Nothing is eternal, not even Riddle.

But of course her brother hated waiting.

'Tell you what; you'll sleep with me tonight, my apartment is just right for two. We'll watch movies and think of the good days, how's that?' Betty tried.

'No, no…I'd best be alone. There were no good days anyway. We were born during a war, now we're in another war. Better think of the good days to come,' she replied sourly.

* * *

Chief Editor of the Daily Prophet, Rick Burton was perusing a very lengthy article written on the lost cause in Bulgaria. Its author, journalist James Thatcher was squirming in his seat, all eyes on Rick's facial expression. It was his first real political case. He had written only sports issues before.

'Mmm… has it ever occurred to you Thatcher that you think too much?' Rick suddenly asked looking up.

'Sorry, Sir?'

'You use your head too much, you get lost in your ideas, that sort of thing.'

'I…can't really say, Sir.'

'See? You thought too much just now, when you answered a simple question.'

'Questions are never simple, Sir.'

'What are you? Socrates? Questions ought to be simple, for my sake at least,' he replied puffing his cigar.

'You're right, Sir.'

'No, I'm not, you're just sucking up to me.'

Thatcher blushed deeply and placed a finger on his lips.

'I think it's my best article,' he concluded.

Rick snorted loudly.

'This better not be your best. We have to cut half of it.'

'What! Well why on Earth…?'

'Because half of this is filled with your own political opinions and some _people _could think it's propaganda.'

'But…journalists do write their opinions,' he added shyly.

'Not on this case, they don't. You were asked to describe a situation, not say how you felt about it!'

'But why is that so very wrong?'

Rick cleaned his glasses impatiently.

'Five of my men disappeared out of the blue a month ago and that's why we had to bring you up from arts and sports. Do you want that to happen to you too? Do you want to be known as another _martyr_ of the Daily Prophet? I know you're angry. So am I. But let's vent our anger here, in my office, with a glass of port wine.'

'What about the freedom of speech? Even if the world is facing great difficulties it is our duty not to be frightened out of telling the truth,' Thatcher continued firmly.

'Freedom? Until the war ends we have no freedom to speak of. This newspaper is no longer a newspaper. You know what it is? My daily bread. Yours too. Right now it's just a way to earn money and survive. It's not pleasant, it's not real or truthful, but it's the Daily Prophet. It's the only newspaper that hasn't been shut down. The Ministry lets us do what we want at our own risks; they won't stand up and protect us when they have more urgent business to attend to. _The Tall-Tale,_ for example, stopped printing two months ago because most of its writers simply vanished and it received many threats from reputable pureblood names. _The Visionary_ and the _Wizard's Voice_ have both been bought by the Nott companies. Even Witches' Delight has been boycotted. And you want _freedom_?'

Thatcher was really looking grey now, though in his heart he still believed he was right to express his opinions, despite the dangers of wars and oppression. He had just hoped that Mr. Burton would share his ideals. But he knew the old man was speaking the truth, in a very gruesome way.

'But we can't just wait and watch our comrades disappear. Sir, we should fight back. We should do something… anything.'

'We already are. We are alive and that is good enough for me. If I die, who will feed my wife and children? I'll be no hero then. I make a difference in this world to my family. Get yourself one and then talk to me,' he said pushing back his article.

Thatcher sighed and took the article, stuffing it in a pocket.

'I hope we live to see the end of the war,' he spoke at length.

Rick nodded absently.

'Maybe you will, I surely won't.'

'It can't last that long, humanity will stand only so much.'

'Only so much? Today's living is very pink and pretty compared to what awaits us. The worst part is the chaos that will break out, there's always the chaos. Run from it, if you can. But I tell you, we can stand a lot more and we will. This is only the overture.'

* * *

Later that evening, Martha and James were walking side by side down the snowy street. Not many knew of Martha's close friend at the Daily Prophet and she did not know James Thatcher had feelings for her. Betty would have probably resented Martha preferring his company to hers.

'I don't know when he started lying to me exactly. I don't know when he started thinking I couldn't take the truth. I guess he just thought he could fool me into complete and utter ignorance, only so that, in the critical moment, he could spring it up on me like a random note,' she was telling him, furiously.

'I'm sure he meant to protect you, Martha. It's normal for him to want to take care of you. That is why he hid the truth from you. He wanted you out of danger. He is risking a lot, you know. He is trying to end the war.'

'By starting other wars? I highly doubt it.'

'I guess you won't forgive him for it really soon.'

'Never,' she replied. 'And if he does come back alive, I'll kill him myself.'

'Martha, you know you're just being angry right now, but it will pass. He's a strong boy, I'm sure he'll be safer there than here.'

'James that's not the point! The bloody idiot lied to me for almost a year! And then all of a sudden he comes clean. That makes me feel like the last person on this planet.'

'I'm sure he meant to give you the truth when you were ready.'

'So, he chose to believe I was ready now? At the last minute? When he is already in so much danger I can't imagine how he'll get out?'

'Would you have wanted not to know?'

She considered the thought for a split-second before hanging her head down and sighing.

'No. I would have wanted to know.'

'We're in the middle of a war. Or at least that's what everyone else thinks even if we do not feel it as they do. Your brother hopes you'll treasure the truth more than the circumstances.'

'The truth! I can't admire him for what he's done.'

'But you can at least pray he'll succeed. It is, coincidentally, his way of staying safe too.'

Martha sighed again, like she always did when someone else was pointing out an obvious thing. She understood what he was saying, but she didn't want to admit to herself that he was right.

'James, I wish you wouldn't tell me all these things. I don't want you convincing me of anything.'

'I'm your friend, you know, and I'll always tell you these things.'

'I guess I should thank you for that, but I can't right now.'

'It's alright, I understand,' he said smiling weakly.

'I don't think you do,' she replied sourly.

Then there was a long silence. Neither said anything. But James had a small problem on his mind that would not leave him alone. He decided to open the subject, even though this was not a good time.

'Mr. Burton told me to get a family.'

'Your boss? He's an odd fellow.'

'Yes. But isn't he sort of right?'

'About getting a family? Take my example James. My family is giving me trouble,' she said sadly. 'Having a family makes you vulnerable right now.'

'Yes, but it's one man's only comfort. And it's better to be together than apart, don't you think? I think he's right. I should make a family.'

Martha flinched and stumbled, as if a strong blow had knocked her down.

'Yes, maybe he was right. Will you walk me home now? I feel rather cold.'

'It's a long way there, maybe we should have some tea first, on me,' he offered.

'No, no… I need to get home and try to sleep at least an hour. I can't Apparate though, it's too dangerous,' she said mostly to herself. 'I'd better get a cab.'

'Are you sure you want to go home?' he asked, concerned. 'You don't look well. Maybe I should take you to the hospital.'

She was very pale, from too much crying.

'No, no, I'm perfectly fine, I just want to lie down.'

'You want me to come with you? I will if you…'

'I'd rather be alone for a while. Could you help me find a cab?'

James was rather disappointed she wanted to leave so soon. Had he rushed it foolishly? Had he mentioned the word 'family' at the wrong time? Yes, her brother was missing, but she shouldn't have to bear it alone. He could comfort her. Apparently, she didn't want that. He would let her go now, but maybe later she would listen to him.

They couldn't find any available cab so James decided to walk her home and not mention anything about family again, or the Daily Prophet. They would just walk in peace and think about their problems separately.

When they were close to her flat they heard raucous noise ahead, as if a lot of sirens were yelling at the same time. When they reached the block they saw several firemen trying to extinguish a fire. It was coming from her window.

There was a police car parked right in front of them and almost all the neighbours were in the middle of the street, most of them in their nightwear, the children tucked in their arms, watching the outcome of this small disaster.

To the untrained muggle eye, this was only a fire, but Martha and James noticed that the flames were imprinted with Dark Magic.

'Oh, Martha dear, we all tried to find you! This is terrible! We tried to put it out, but it just came out of nowhere and it really gave us a fright! The firemen have been fighting with it ever since,' one of her neighbours, an old lady, told her panting for her breath.

Martha nodded, flabbergasted, as she watched the flames swallow her cheap curtains. Her tiny apartment was engulfed in flames. Her belongings were burning up.

She sat on the kerb, pulling her coat around her. James sat next to her, holding her shoulder tight.

'It's alright, Martha. It's alright…you never know what can happen these days. Dark Magic is everywhere. It's probably because you work for the Ministry, but it will go away soon…'

'James, this is a sign my brother is in trouble. They're telling me he's a bother to _them_,' she said most emphatically holding her head in her arms.

'That's a rushed conclusion Marth…'

'No it isn't. Why else would they do this to me? It means they're already after him, or worse. Oh, Good Lord, I just wish he were here! See what's happening? See what he's done? This is his fault. I will never forgive him if he hurts himself.'

'Young lady? Are you Martha Crosby? We need to ask you some questions,' a police inspector interrupted.

She extricated herself from James' hold and followed the inspector in a more private corner.

After two hours, the firemen managed to extinguish the flames. Of course, Martha and James knew the apartment was still in danger. But Martha refused his help.

'I'd rather not go to your place tonight. I'll just call Betty and stay with her for a while,' she said blankly. She felt like a stone had fallen on her head and she couldn't think anymore.

Her home was wrecked. They had destroyed her apartment. The emptiness of the place left her speechless. Her bed was black and charred, the little tea cups in the kitchen were lying, broken on the floor and the sofa was torn and the books were all ash.

She didn't want to think.

She started crying softly in her hands, her back resting against the police car.

She pushed James away when he placed an arm around her.

She sobbed for some good minutes. No one dared approach her.

The day had been too long. It wasn't even finished.

After she recovered from the shock, she called Betty from a payphone.

She called for a cab too and told James she would be staying with Betty tonight. He seemed to protest at first, but she told him she was tired and wanted to sleep and that tomorrow, she would try to sort out what was left. She also promised to call him.

'Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?'

'James, Betty lives on the outskirts of London. Are you sure you want to make that journey? Please, I'll be alright.'

She got inside the car quickly, making sure James had already stopped following her.

He stood in front of the window for a couple of moments, his hand barely touching the glass, before the vehicle started moving.

She sighed in relief.

She gave the driver Betty's address and wrapped the coat around her like a blanket.

'Miss, do you mind if we take this gentleman?' the driver suddenly asked.

She was awakened from her reverie. She saw a young man waving his hands desperately in their direction. He was dressed very modestly and she saw he was trembling from the cold.

'No, it's alright,' she answered simply.

The young man quickly jumped inside the car, coughing shortly as he brushed snow off his lapels.

'Where to, young man?'

He muttered an incoherent name, but the driver did not protest. The car started moving again.

He turned towards Martha, his wand at the ready, counting back from ten. He was going to kill her when he reached one.

'Oh, you're bleeding,' she suddenly said, looking down at his left hand.

There was a large laceration across his skin.

She quickly pulled out her bag and started looking through it.

'Here,' she said after some moments, taking out a small bottle filled with yellow liquid and some sheets of cotton.

Without any warning, she took his hand and placed it in her lap.

'It's alright, I'm used to this around the office all the time,' she said absently, sniffing her nose.

She poured some of the liquid on it. His breath hitched.

'Yes, I know, stings a bit.'

She tied the cotton band around his hand tightly.

'There. I suppose it was a frost bite,' she mumbled, her voice neutral. She gave him back his hand.

He stared at her surprised.

'I apologize. I didn't mean to…' she said kindly, pointing at his hand. 'But it was a deep cut. And I don't like the sight of blood.'

He narrowed his eyes. Was she bluffing? Was she making a last minute attempt to save her life?

Or did she really not recognize him? It was true that there were very few pictures of him out there, but she worked for the Ministry. Surely, she knew.

Martha took his confused expression for shyness.

'You're probably still cold. You should dress better,' she added, staring out the window.

Tom Riddle was a bit taken aback. He looked at the cotton band around his hand.

'I will, thank you,' he said quietly.

'You're welcome,' she replied.

He wasn't yet convinced she was not playing stupid. She had to know it was him.

'Excuse me, I think I've seen you before,' he said.

She looked at him surprised.

'Oh. Perhaps. You do not look familiar though,' she replied blankly.

'Yes, I think I've seen you around the Ministry, if I'm not mistaken,' he continued.

She looked at the driver warily.

'You mean, the _other_ Ministry?' she asked, careful not to say the word 'magic'.

'Yes,' he said, looking at the driver as well.

'You might have,' she answered.

'I'm a mailman there,' he said, matter-of-factly.

'Oh, I see,' she said, smiling in sadness.

'You are smiling?'

'Yes. See, I have recently received some unpleasant letters,' she explained. 'So it's ironic. You are the bearer of my bad news.'

'I'm sorry to hear that, but I have delivered only bad letters, as of late,' he replied, his voice, lower than a whisper.

'Yes, I've noticed. I hope you didn't deliver any bad letters to yourself.'

Tom was arrested in thought. He chuckled. He did not know what to say to that.

Avery, who was currently at the wheel, driving carelessly, was already getting restless.

'It's unavoidable, I'm afraid,' he said, flashing a cold smile.

'I'm sorry then,' she said, rearranging her coat around her. Her head had started to hurt her from all the stress and anxiety. She leant it against the window pane and groaned softly.

'Are you alright?' he asked.

'Just a headache,' she said, smiling. 'It will go away.'

Tom gripped his wand again and got ready to kill her. He was going to say "This is for your brother".

She would die with the knowledge that her death had been revenge for her brother's crimes.

He started counting from three this time.

The car suddenly jolted violently and she almost fell in his arms.

Safe to say, her elbow knocked the wand right out of his hand. It fell to the floor with a soft clank.

Her hands were pressed against his chest for support. She was very warm, despite the general coldness.

'I am terribly sorry…' she began, raising herself with his help.

Their eyes met. Tom Riddle thought that she was sure to recognize him now. It was unavoidable.

But she only frowned.

'You don't look like an ordinary mailman,' she remarked.

He let go of her arms as soon as she was seated again.

'I don't?' he asked, trying to keep his irritation out of his voice. 'What do I look like then?'

She stared at him surprised. She studied his face in concentration.

'A writer, maybe,' she said, nodding her head.

'A writer,' he acknowledged. 'Not bad.'

She leant down to pull her stockings, but something caught her eye.

She picked it up.

'Is this yours?' she asked, waving the wand in front of him.

Tom looked into her deep, dark eyes. They were like two overflowing pools of water. She had been crying.

He had got in the cab to kill her and now she was holding his wand. He did not understand what had happened.

'Yes, I'm afraid so. I must have dropped it when…' he said, pointing between them, chuckling.

'Oh, right, of course, I'm sorry. Here,' she said, and she dropped it in his open hands.

She looked at his hands again.

'You're not going to jinx me, are you?' she asked, half-joking, although her face betrayed nothing.

Tom opened his mouth to reply, but she waved her hand.

'Don't mind me, I am very silly,' she said, looking down.

But she quickly looked up again.

'Unless you _are_ going to do that, in which case I should prepare my own wand. But you're a nice mailman, aren't you?'

He did not answer. He only watched her hands carefully. Was she really going to take out her wand?

Martha looked out the window and saw a familiar row of houses.

'Excuse me, if you could just drop me off here…' she told Avery.

'But we haven't reached our destination,' Avery replied hoarsely.

'It's fine here. If we go all the way you won't be able to park,' she said, looking in her bag for some money.

She realized in stupor that she had very little money on her. She started blushing.

Tom noticed her discomfort immediately.

'The ride is on me,' he said quickly.

She shook her head. 'No, no, I can't have that.'

'Please.'

'No, it's quite fine, I think I have enough money…' she said, counting the notes and pennies.

He pressed his hand over her arm.

She flinched, but did not move.

'It's the least I can do. You were kind enough to be my company,' he said formally.

She smiled nervously.

'Thank you. I owe you. I will pay you back if I see you around the Ministry.'

Tom waved his hand.

'Don't trouble yourself. You owe me nothing.'

'Well, I will remember my debt anyway, I always do,' she replied.

Tom smiled. He gripped his wand in his hand again. He could do it this time.

It would be fitting.

The end of the ride, the end of her life. She would die before she even knew she had left.

'I guess this is goodbye then,' she said, brushing her eyes for dry tears.

'Yes, I believe it is,' he began.

Now he would say "This is for your brother, Martha. Goodbye."

She moved to open the door, but all of a sudden she remembered something.

She stopped and chuckled softly.

'Sorry, I never introduced myself, I'm Martha,' she said, extending her hand.

He took it. He thought of shaking it. Maybe he should kiss it though, as a goodbye kiss. It would be the last kiss of her life.

He touched her skin with his lips quickly.

'And your name…?' she asked, already one foot out of the car.

_Quick, now, _he told himself. _Now is the time._

Time seemed to stand still. _  
_

'Arthur,' he replied in resignation.

Her eyes widened.

'Oh...'

It was the name of her brother. And he knew that.

'Well, it was nice meeting you, Arthur,' she said, feeling dizzy.

'Likewise, Martha.'

The cab door was shut. He watched her run quickly across the street, holding her hat with one hand.

He ran a hand through his hair, feeling anger welling up inside of him.

'My Lord…' Avery began.

'Just drive.'

'But, My Lord, the girl…we can still…'

'Drive I say,' he ordered coldly.

Avery sighed and started the car again.

Tom sat with his head leant against the window, an expression of deep irritation written all over his face.

Avery was very puzzled himself. He knew his Lord liked to kill victims in person. Sometimes he would charge others with the burden of murders, but he would kill whenever he could. It had something to do with his Horcruxes, from what he could understand.

He wondered, then, what had happened tonight to stop him from killing a defenseless young girl.

After driving in silence for more than twenty minutes, he finally dared to speak again.

'My Lord, may I ask why…'

'Why what, Avery?' Riddle asked defiantly.

'Well…why you didn't finish the business. She was as harmless as a bird…'

'It was not the right time,' he replied curtly. 'And she did not even know who I was.'

Avery knew these were not real reasons and that his master had killed without flinching before, no matter the time or place. It was true that he liked to follow a certain etiquette. His methods were elegant and well thought-out. But surely, he wouldn't risk letting a victim escape for the sake of etiquette.

Tom Riddle himself was in a state of confusion and self-loathing.

It seemed that the business of splitting his soul strengthened and weakened him at the same time.

He had not spared her out of pity. It must have been something else.

Maybe it had been her disarming kindness, the way she had helped a complete stranger.

Or maybe her innocent naiveté, which had made her both unpredictable and painfully oblivious.

Or better yet, maybe it had been the fact that she had treated him completely normal, that she had been so familiar and natural around him.

He was not used to people being their comfortable selves around him.

No matter what the actual reason had been, he felt he had failed in a most inexcusable way.

He would have to see her again, to get the job done.

'We're going home, Avery,' he said, half-heartedly.


End file.
